


It's Friday Night

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 24 hour porn challenge, Clubbing, Come At Once, First Time, John being a creeper, M/M, Sherlock being secretive, post-s4, slightly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9915116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: As John scrolls through his unanswered texts a month later, he has a horrifying thought. What if Sherlock is seeing someone? What if that’s where he is on Fridays? What if he’s out —oh god, what if he’s out having sex on Fridays, and that’s why he’s ignoring John’s calls?Impossible.Or is it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Come At Once 24-hour porn challenge. Burning Up A Sun gave me the prompt "I love cheap thrills!" I went through about three iterations of how this could go before I settled on this one. I...sort of fulfilled the prompt? If you think about it. Heh. Unbeta'ed, in the spirit of the quick nature of the challenge, so if you see something I missed give me a shout.

_This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message. I’ll know if you’re lying, so don’t try._

John stares at his phone. That’s odd – it’s Friday, and Sherlock hasn’t answered his texts or calls on Fridays for … it has to be months, now. That John’s noticed, anyway. It’s not like he calls every Friday, but he’s got a last-minute date, and Molly is busy, and Greg is out, and …Christ, he needs a babysitter, for the love of all that is holy.

It’s been eight months since Mary passed, and John tries to ignore the slight twinge of guilt at the itch under his skin to just get laid, already.  Baker Street is finally restored, Rosie is starting to toddle and babble tiny little bits of “Daaaaaa” and, hilariously, “La-La,” for Sherlock, and John is just done, thanks, with doing everything for everyone else and just wants to go out, get utterly shit-faced and maybe get his cock sucked. Or suck one if Claire doesn’t work out; he’s not picky.

“Oh my god, you utter twat, of course you disappear. Fuck,” John mutters, firing off texts to just about everyone he knows at this point, even fucking _Billy_ , for the love of Christ. It’s already seven, he’s supposed to meet Claire at the pub at eight.  John pokes his head into Rosie’s room – good, she’s asleep now, her tiny fists twisted into the yellow square of blanket Greg gave her last month. “Bee-bee” is now her favorite and she screams bloody murder if John ever forgets it at home, so thank the lord it’s still in her cot and not pitched over the side in a fit of pique.

John backs out of the room, closes the door most of the way, and leans against the wall in the hallway. Damn Sherlock, anyway. He’s always been a bit sketchy to get a hold of at the best of times, but since everything  went so terribly sideways last year with Mary, and then that horrifying meeting with Eurus, he’s been oddly more present. He and John have spent countless hours working on Baker Street, restoring plaster, painting, shopping for new furniture and, once the place was clean, letting Rosie learn her way around the rooms. It’s even to the point where Rosie has her own little cot and toybox next to the sofa, and Sherlock proudly had put plug-covers on every socket in the place and locked up the kitchen cabinets. He’s even started leaving paint swatches lying around. There’s just one room they hadn’t yet worked on – John’s old room upstairs.

Yeah, John gets the hint, but he’s still a bit unsure about moving back in. There’s been a strange tension in the place every time Rosie goes down for a nap and he and Sherlock catch each other’s eye from across the room.

John slides down the hallway wall and sits on the floor. The nightlight in the bathroom is barely enough to see the edges of the hall, the small table at the end with Mary’s odd-looking attempt at dried flower arranging in a rather ugly vase they got as a wedding gift. This is their home, theirs together. And yet.

He’s trying not to think about the fact his recent sexual reawakening is somewhat coincidental with watching Sherlock, clad in a tight blue tee shirt and tatty old jeans, stretch to put all the books back on the top shelf next to the fireplace, the dimples at the base of his spine on full display.

He hits Sherlock’s number on his phone again. It’s 7:15.

_This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message. I’ll know if you’re lying, so don’t try._

Goddammit.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

After that disaster of a Friday where he had to call and cancel with Claire only to spend the entire night by himself in a dark house, drinking wine and watching garbage telly and fuming at himself and everyone he knows for thwarting his attempts at romance, he starts watching his phone calls to Sherlock, particularly, and when they are and are not answered. 

He realizes he’s probably obsessing for no reason whatsoever, but after a couple more of weeks of no-contact Fridays, he’s more sure than ever that it’s been months since he was able to see, speak with, or even get a text from Sherlock on a Friday night. Even a simple “want to grab a curry?” was unanswered on a Friday after a case had wrapped the day before, where John had managed to work around day school and Greg had thrown his hand in for a few hours of babysitting duty to let them hare off to Oxford for the afternoon. And now Sherlock won’t even bother to make time for him? Ridiculous.

But as John scrolls through his unanswered texts a month later, he has a horrifying thought. What if Sherlock is seeing someone? What if that’s where he is on Fridays? What if he’s out —oh god, what if he’s _out having sex on Fridays,_ and that’s why he’s ignoring John’s calls?

Impossible.

Or is it?

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

John sets up on the roof opposite Baker Street, feeling utterly stupid and absolutely sure he’s lost his mind. The binocs he borrowed from Stamford are somewhat shit compared to what he got in the Army, but they’re good enough for his purposes right now, which is just to watch Sherlock on a Friday from across the street like a fucking creeper. If a creeper were to have with him a baby in a pushchair happily gnawing on a favorite biscuit and pointing at birds as they fly over.

He’s certainly not having sex or going on dates, so what the hell does it matter what he does with his Fridays, anyway? A part of him, the rational, adult part, says he should just ask Sherlock what he’s doing on Fridays instead of stalking him like a loser. But there’s another part of him, a part that really doesn’t want that confirmation from Sherlock’s own lips; confirmation that there might be someone else in his life, someone who might get to touch those dimples at the base of his spine or get a glimpse of a rare, sweet smile when Rosie brings Sherlock her bee-bee and asks for a cuddle.

John settles in, careful that the fading summer sunlight doesn’t flash off the lenses of the binoculars as he watches the front door. It’s 8:45 pm on a Friday night, and the traffic on Baker Street is heavy. The air is warm, thick with exhaust and the smell of yeast bread and spices from Speedys. John is idly watching a couple bicker right outside the door to the café when the black flash of the flat door catches his attention, and Sherlock slips out to hail a cab.

John almost drops the binoculars.

Sherlock is kitted out like John’s never seen him before. Painted on dark jeans, cobalt blue tee shirt with a slash of white across the front. Curls gelled into place and—John adjusts and looks more closely at Sherlock’s face—is that eyeliner? _Glitter?_

Sherlock dives into the cab and John drops back onto his rear end, hidden behind the lip of the roofline, binoculars forgotten in his hand. Rosie has finished her biscuit and is picking at the straps of her pushchair. “Daaaa?” she asks.

“I don’t even know,” John says weakly.

……………………………………………………………………

The following Tuesday John pops around the flat at dinnertime with Sherlock’s favorite Chinese food and a fluttering, thumping heart. Baker Street is _his_ territory, _his_ second home, these moments with Sherlock are his alone to cherish and wonder over in the dark of the night, when he can’t sleep and a vision of the long column of Sherlock’s impossibly elegant neck is taunting him.

The door swings open a moment before John reaches it. “Ah, excellent, you even got wonton soup!” Sherlock says, and he looks absolutely himself, pearl grey shirt and black suit pants, curls just starting to go to frizz in the evening. John is massively relieved. “Rose, darling, let’s let bee-bee have a rest while we eat, yes?” He swoops Rosie out of her pushchair and efficiently pops her into her highchair at the sitting room table. She squawks as bee-bee drops onto the floor. “She’s never going to let go of that, you realize,” Sherlock mutters as he straps her in. “She’ll be a teenager with a ratty piece of cloth shoved into her pillowcase.”

“It’s a self-soothing technique, Sherlock,” John says, and shovels piles of books onto the floor. “And she will not.”

Sherlock snorts his disagreement and pulls a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge. They sit down and Sherlock sneaks soft, saucy chicken and broccoli onto Rose’s tray with the plain steamed chicken and veg that John got for her. Sherlock knows John doesn’t want her to have that much salt yet, but she knows where her bread is buttered and ignores all the fresh carrots John keeps pushing at her for one more bit of broccoli swimming in sauce from the end of Sherlock’s chopsticks.

John shakes his head fondly. He wouldn’t have it any other way. And, as he watches Sherlock delicately snap up a dumpling with a pair of cheap, takeaway chopsticks all the while chattering away with bright eyes about an asinine case he was contacted about, John thinks there might be a way he won’t have to.

…………………………………………………………………….

If John thought last week’s stalking session was bad, this one is worse.  He dropped Rosie at Harry’s and borrowed her car, only to spend twenty minutes circling the streets until a parking space opened up near the front door of the flat. Now he sits, lights off and engine on, in the dark about six doors down, until he sees Sherlock emerge from the front door at close to nine. John’s trying to look down so the brim of his stupid hat covers his face, but he glances up just enough to see Sherlock’s figure outlined entirely in black: black trousers, black boots, black button-up shirt. Less glitter this time but more jewelry, a glint of silver chain looped around a ring on his middle finger and traveling up his left hand to wrap in multiple silver strands around his wrist. It sparkles in the warm sunset light, mesmerizing even in the simple movement of reaching out for a car door handle.

Oh hell, the taxi. John waits until the taxi starts to pull away, then he slowly rolls forward to follow.

The cab edges its way south, skirts Kensington, then crosses over the river. John carefully follows a few cars behind until it pulls up to an old warehouse sitting almost directly on the water.

Not a warehouse any more, though, is it? It’s a club. A dance club, of all the things, by the look of the queue of patrons standing outside waiting to get in. John keeps driving past, loops around the building and comes back to park.  He carefully edges up to the scene from across the street.

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, though the girl in the tight, white dress is still approximately where she was in the queue when John passed by fifteen minutes ago.

He’s already inside, John would bet his life on it. He’s got a VIP pass, or he knows someone, or he’s on a case and has special permission to skirt the queue.

Problem is, John has none of that, and given his ratty old jeans, shit-kicker boots and the worlds ugliest flannel — there’s no way he’ll get in. Maybe if he ditches the flannel and hat and just leaves the maroon tshirt, jeans, and boots, he could get away with being slightly purposefully tatty? He doesn’t know. He’s not been in a club in a decade, at this point.

But Sherlock is, and John desperately wants to be there to see just exactly why, so he drops the hat, contemplates setting the flannel on fire, and joins the back of the queue to some rather squicked-out looks from the girls in front of him.

“Wrong team, ladies, no worries,” he says, and he can’t tell if the girls are reassured or more concerned he’s out trolling for young boys. Fuck, this is going to be a long night.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When John finally slips inside the door after an hour in the queue and paying the doorman a ridiculous bribe, he realizes finding Sherlock now is going to be an utter nightmare. The entire large, open room is wall to wall with people dancing, drinking, laughing, and prowling the edges of the dance floor looking for someone, anyone, to spend a sweaty fifteen minutes with.

John starts at the bar and makes a circuit around the room as far back from the dance floor as possible. He checks each table, every nook holding a couple snogging breathlessly, even takes a glance inside the massive unixex washroom at the back, where it seems everyone and anyone can find themselves an empty cubicle for a quick fuck, if they want. John glances down at the three pairs of feet showing in the cubicle nearest him and shrugs. Whatever thrills, he figures. He’s been there a few times, himself.

But it is rather depressing, knowing the club is a fairly free place to find a partner of just about any sort you’d like, and Sherlock is here, and here often enough to just walk inside without waiting. John wanders back over to the bar and decides that he at least will have a drink or two considering the outrageous cover he paid, and watches to see if he might still catch sight of Sherlock in this ridiculous mob.

He picks up his beer and turns back to lean against the bar. He’s closer to the dance floor than he usually prefers, but that’s the only space he could find. Just as he lifts his beer to take a sip, a flash of silver catches his eye not twenty feet in front of him, right in the middle of the dance floor.

It’s Sherlock. And he’s _dancing._

John almost drops his beer. Sherlock sways and pops his hips to a beat that now slides down into a bass drop that pulses below the belt, that pulls Sherlock’s arms over his head and makes him throw his head back with abandon.  John can’t believe it. It’s disarming to see Sherlock so free, so uninhibited, so _drop dead sexy,_ oh my god. Because he is, from the shadow of his cheekbones to the curve of his arse, his lips glossy and slick.

John can’t stop staring, his cock starting to get uncomfortably hard in his jeans. He’s done for, he knows it, because as patient as Sherlock has been over the last few months by only dropping the tiniest of hints, John feels every one of them like a blow between the eyes. This is what he wants. This is who he wants. He’s right about his own sexual reemergence, Sherlock is right about moving back into the flat. It’s not just a friendship they’ve rebuilt in Baker Street, it’s a foundation for so much more.

John takes another swallow of beer and wonders what to do next. But the decision is taken out of his hands when Sherlock spots him and stops stock still, a flush coloring his face and panic in his eyes.

Oh, no. John didn’t get laid on three continents for nothing. He gives his sexiest smirk and gestures— _please, keep going, let me watch_ —and his heart skips a few beats when Sherlock bites his lip and slowly, slowly starts to move again, a bit of extra roll in his hips and his eyes locked on John’s.  Yes. Perfect. They’re not even touching and John can feel every beat in his groin, every sexy glance from under Sherlock’s eyelashes right in his heart. He only manages about two more minutes of this maddening display of stark flirtatiousness before he stalks across the floor, grabs Sherlock by the hips and pulls him in flush against his front.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding on Fridays,” John growls. “I can’t believe it. How long have you been coming here?”

Sherlock melts against him, his cock pressing insistently at John’s stomach. “Since…since we danced, since before the wedding,” he rasps in John’s ear. “I told you, I love to dance. And it was the only way I could remember holding you, moving with you. The closest we’d ever been.”

John slides his hands around to cup Sherlock’s gorgeous arse and squeezes, just a little. “I’ve been an utter idiot. You’ve been so patient, so perfect.” He tips his head up to press his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s delectable mouth. “I’m ready. Let me show you how ready.”

Sherlock gasps a little, then grabs John’s hand and pulls him with determination across the writhing mass of bodies and toward the bathroom in the back. There are a few whistles and hoots as they go but John doesn’t care, honestly, he wants his hands on that body as soon as possible, and if that means a hot snogging session in the bathroom of a club, well. He’s had it in worse places.

Sherlock shoulders the door open and drags John to the last cubicle on the left, bangs the door closed and with a single, desperate look swoops in to press John against the wall and kiss him with fierce abandon.

John can feel every bit of that kiss all the way down to his toes, electricity radiating along his fingers and leaving gooseflesh in its wake. He gives as good as he gets, though, and dips his tongue between Sherlock’s plump lips, tastes sweet, cherry lipgloss and a hint of alcohol. He sucks and bites Sherlock’s lower lip and slips a hand down to squeeze his cock in those ridiculous, tight trousers.

“Nnngh,” Sherlock says. John grins. If he’s lost his words already, John can’t wait for the next part.

“Open those stupid trousers, gorgeous,” John says, as he drags his fingers around the fly. “I think you’ll be really happy if you do.”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically and undoes the flies, drags his shirt tails out and pulls the top of the trousers apart.

Oh Jesus. He’s not wearing pants, and the swirl of dark, coarse hair on his taut belly is perfect. John drops to his knees in the rather roomy cubicle and nuzzles his nose right into it. Sherlock’s hands drop to cradle the back of John’s skull, and John grins against his skin. He pulls Sherlock’s open trousers lower, lower, until they drop below that gorgeous arse and his cock lifts from the folds of the cloth. It’s hot-flushed and hard, solid and curved and it’s been about a decade since he sucked a cock but damned if he’s not going to do the best job he can with this one.

“Tell me if this is what you like,” John says, and presses the soft, plump head against his lips for a moment before letting Sherlock’s cock push itself inside his mouth, the skin silky against his lips. His jaw tries to remember how to adjust for a moment, but it does remember and Sherlock’s sucked-in breath is enough to encourage John that he’s at least started out okay.

He hollows his cheeks and draws up but not off, then tongues the length back down a few times. Judging by the trembling he can feel in Sherlock’s thighs this is good, too, so he does it a few more times before he pulls off to give his jaw a break and presses his cheek against Sherlock’s thigh and just breathes him in.

“Christ,” Sherlock says, caressing his hair. “You’re so good. So good. I can’t believe it. I didn’t know if you’d ever – but you are, and I’ve wanted you for so long, John. So long.”

John kisses his thigh, the crease of his groin. “I’m here now. Let me take care of you. Let me be with you like this. Let me bring Rosie to you in the morning. Let me argue with you about the washing. Let me come back to Baker Street. I promise I’ll be there, always.”

Sherlock leans down and kisses him, slowly and with more sweet affection than John could imagine from a desperate hookup in a club bathroom. But it turns hot and filthy again in a heartbeat, and John clambers to his feet to unfasten his own trousers. Sherlock helps drag his jeans and pants down until his cock is free, and presses his body to John’s and strokes their cocks together in one large hand.

“I’m definitely going to feel that in the morning,” Sherlock whispers, and John goes hot all over. “When we get back to the flat you’re going to fuck me, and I’m going to feel every bit of that cock as you’re doing it, then I’m going to spend hours kissing you and learning every. Single. Inch. Of your body.” John gasps as Sherlock grips him harder, his cock sliding against Sherlock’s , the coil of orgasm building and expanding white-hot and bright as he gasps into Sherlock’s neck. He can barely grit out a warning as he comes, spunk sliding over Sherlock’s fist and his cock, and Sherlock himself moans and fucks into his fist harder, faster, until he too comes with a low growl, come dripping onto the floor.

 They separate, panting and grinning stupidly at each other. They sneak glances at each other as they clean up, tuck themselves away and zip up, and Sherlock actually giggles a bit when John can’t stand not touching him any longer and presses nibbling little kisses to his neck.

“I could have sworn you had a lover,” John says, before they leave their cubicle and go back into the real world.  He’s nervous but he has to confess. “I actually watched you from the roof across the street. I was terrified you’d found a boyfriend and I couldn’t stand it. I’m sorry. That was really not…not good of me.”

Sherlock grins. “The fact you did that and I had no idea might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah?” John says, relieved.

“Yeah.” Sherlock says, and kisses him again. “Now, come dance with me.” He pushes open the door and they walk out into the pounding rhythm of the club and John spends the rest of his Friday night where he never thought he would, with his hands on Sherlock’s hips and the pulse of love in his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
